


To Live in this Moment

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musketeers have never been very subtle in their advice - Constance knows <i>that</i> well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Live in this Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Celen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celen/gifts).



> Birthday fic for Celen! Shhh, it's still your birthday here for another thirty minutes. 
> 
> First time writing Constance, and as I'm still struggling with a writer's block, I can't attest to the quality of this - but I hope you enjoy regardless, bb!

**I.**  
After everything is said and done, she expects that things will return to normal. Normal. It pains her to think of it, but it is to be expected, as well, and though it is a bitter pill to swallow, it is one that she must swallow all the same. Gone are the days of musketeers traipsing through her house, all smiles and sinful laughter, delight and mischief. Gone are the days when she can look at d’Artagnan and see sunlight and hope and someone who sees _her_. 

A few days after her husband’s attempted suicide, d’Artagnan arrives with Athos to move his small belongings from their house, his room now unspeakably unavailable and open to a new renter. She hides away, unable to look at either of them, curled into herself in her anger and bitterness, at her regret to have ended this dream so early, just when she was finally, after so many years, learned what it is she wants. Still, when she goes to his room to clean up and tidy up for the would-be next renter, she finds that d’Artagnan has left a few things, placed in obvious locations for her to find, without being obvious from the doorway. An old leather jacket which she holds close to her chest and inhales, that sour smell of Paris unable to hide that lingering smell that reminds her purely of d’Artagnan. So, too, has he left an old sword – not the one he favors, but a gift all the same – and a firearm. This one is of well make and she knows that it was no small feat to leave it here – and the gifted weaponry, strangely enough, is what makes her cry the most, suppressive sobs she holds down tight into her chest until it curls up hard into a little ball inside her, a reminder of what she’s lost but what she may still have, in time. 

Life returns to normality, however. She does not have a chance to practice her swordsmanship or her marksmanship, as her husband is loathed to leave her alone, especially once she steps outside. She’s grown used to his oppressive shadow behind her, always stuck at the window or leaning in the doorway as she goes about her wifely business – the hanging of the laundry, the mending of his trousers, cleaning the dishes, cooking the dinner, stoking the fire, sweeping the front stoop. Every day her bitterness grows, and it is only for lack of options that she does not march away – terrified to have his death hanging over her head, her absolute guilt. She knows it is manipulation, and she hates him for it, but she can’t step beyond the threshold of their home without remembering it. 

 

**II.**  
She assumes that this is the end of her little adventure. Which is why she’s completely shocked when Aramis arrives one day, sweeping off his hat and grinning at her in greeting – smile wide and expressive. A musketeer approaching her home is enough to get her husband standing right in the doorway, face grim, and Aramis turns and bows his head just slightly towards her husband and it is only because she knows him and how warm that he can be that she knows that the pleasant smile he sends his way is nothing short of cold, it’s enough to make her blood freeze, should such a look be directed at her – it doesn’t reach his eyes and it’s clear that he means no more good wishes towards her husband as a hawk does a snake. 

He turns back to her quickly enough. “Constance! I haven’t seen you for so long that I felt it was time I paid my respects,” he says, replacing his hat back on his head and gestures towards the laundry basket in her hand. “Allow me to help.”

She’s so shocked to see him that she doesn’t even question it and merely nods her head mutely, knowing that it will only outrage her husband behind her as they both set out to the laundry lines. Her husband retreats back inside but watches her grimly from the window. She smiles a little at Aramis, unsure what to say or how to react. He merely beams at her, his smile in general warm and comforting, even if she knows it’s a smile he directs at many who live and breathe. Regardless, she’s pleasantly surprised when he begins to assist her with the laundry. At first she is terrified that he will speak of d’Artagnan, and at once wants to hear everything and nothing at all, terrified of what she will hear, terrified of what would be worse – that he should still be sad to have ‘lost’ her or that he should be already well enough on his own. 

Her hands are shaking so much she merely drops her clean laundry on the ground, but Aramis takes the basket from her, hanging each shirt of her husband’s with tender care that’s clearly meant for her and not for the man glowering in the window. He smiles at her, wicked and wide, and she knows that it is mostly to set her husband aflame, but never enough that he should round on her. She’s grateful for that much.

“… How are things?” she finally manages to ask, quietly, and realizes that Aramis has been waiting for her to take the first step. 

He nods, expression kind, and says, “We’ve gotten a few new recruits within the last few weeks, so a lot of energy has gone to training them. Athos is still the best with the sword, but,” he pauses here and observes her. She tries to keep her gaze on him steady, tries to convey that she can handle what it is that he’ll say. So he smiles and nods again. “Athos is still the best swordsman we have, but in a few years time, d’Artagnan may challenge that position. He’s doing well – training a lot, improving every day. He’s finally gotten the shine out of his new uniform, thankfully, so he looks less like a toy soldier. And he does this rather dashing hair flip after finishing a complete set with the sword – something he learned from me undoubtedly.” 

He places a hand over his heart here, preening, and Constance can’t help but laugh – realizing that this is his intention and grateful for his kind words. “Indeed?” she asks. “You’re a master of the hair flip, then?” 

“I’m thinking of growing it out,” he says absently, removing his hat to finger at some of his hair, then shrugs and places his hat back on just as quickly, returning to the laundry. “He’s taking well to the training, though,” he adds, softer now, “He takes the best to the sword, but he’s improving with both the musket and the hand-to-hand. That less so if only because I believe he isn’t so keen on Porthos throwing him around like he’s a sack of potatoes. It’s an acquired taste, surely.” 

Constance laughs again, and is delighted to know that it is a genuine laugh, and that hearing of d’Artagnan’s exploits does not make the raw wound of her heart ache all the more. It helps, perhaps, that Aramis is telling her such light tails – things that don’t reveal anything, other than his growing friendship between three men who’ve grown so important to him, as she can remember from their nights together, in which he would tell her all the things of his three friends. 

Aramis is watching her with sympathy. She turns away, quiet now. They hang the laundry together, and he is gentle and kind to her, as is his way, and she’s grateful for that much – and grateful that she hasn’t been so easily forgotten by him. 

 

**III.**   
The greater surprise is when, a few days later, Porthos arrives. Of the four of them, he is perhaps the one she knows the least, only ever speaking with him when it was the group of them visiting her home. Still, on this particular day, he comes alone and bows his head to her in greeting, and then glares cool and steady at her husband before he can even speak. And truly, Constance never realized how intimidating a man Porthos is until that moment when he’s staring down her husband and, slowly, her husband backs away from the doorway and disappears. 

She blinks at him in surprise, regardless, and asks, “What brings you here, Porthos?” 

He levels her with a stern look and she almost feels foolish, but a moment later his expression softens – something she’s still getting used to, but slowly able to process, that Porthos should be one of the gentler of the three, once past that intimidating, gruff exterior. 

He nods towards the firewood, stacked near the doorway. “Thought you could use help with that.”

She’s a little stunned, not because she is short on firewood, although truthfully she hates to purchase within Paris, but it’s hardly that wood is easy to come by. With her husband’s injured arm, it’s been left to her to split the wood, and while she’d never scoff in the face of what’s considered a man’s job, she also lacks enough stamina to keep it up for a while.

Porthos nods in understand, even though she doesn’t say a word, and strolls over to the stack, retrieving the axe and setting everything up, splitting wood as if it was an easy task. Of course, he’s strong enough that it’s hardly surprising that he should do so. Still, she can’t help but sight. 

“Aramis visited the other day, too,” she says, hoping it will prompt Porthos to issue the reason why he and Aramis have both shown up when before there’d be nothing by silence from the regiment. She wouldn’t be surprised if that’d remained the case, honestly, understanding that their loyalty lies with d’Artagnan. 

Porthos shrugs and works silently at slicing the wood. Constance stands, arms crossed, watching him and fetching more logs when his little pile grows less. 

When it becomes clear that Porthos isn’t going to admit to anything, she sighs and asks, “How is everyone?”

“Aramis is Aramis,” Porthos says, thoughtfully, lining up the axe with the heart of the log standing upright. He slices through it easily. “Athos is as well as to be expected. But that isn’t what you’re asking.” 

“… No,” she admits. 

“So ask what you really want to know,” Porthos says, and lifts his eyebrows at her. A moment later, he offers her a small smile. 

Constance laughs, feeling foolish, and asks, “How is d’Artagnan?” 

He says, without hesitation, “He misses you.” 

Her heart hurts at the confirmation. Where Aramis sugar-coated and emphasized d’Artagnan’s progression, now Porthos tells her bluntly, “He throws himself into training to give himself something to do. He’s skilled, and growing in talent. But it’s clear his mind is elsewhere.”

He finishes splitting the logs and sets the axe down, turning to look at her and clearly noticing her distress in her expression. He looks at her, sympathetic, and steps forward, resting his hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. 

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, because even if she wishes the news was different, even if she wished she didn’t have to be away from him – she’s glad to know the truth, at the heart of it. Glad to know she hasn’t been forgotten. That he still thinks of her. 

 

**IV.**  
After Aramis and Porthos, Constance isn’t even surprised when it’s Athos who visits next. He, at least, has the sense not to visit her at her home and potentially upset her husband further to the point of physically preventing her from leaving the house, and she’s grateful when he falls in step beside her as she makes her way through the market, carrying her basket of carrots, potatoes, and a few leeks she’d gotten on a great bargain. 

“Would you wish me to carry that for you?” he asks and she shakes her head.

“I think I can handle the basket, but I thank you,” she says, perhaps a bit cross because she’s tired of being treated like she’s fragile – but she knows that Athos means well, and smiles up at him to articulate her thanks and her gratefulness to his kindness. He doesn’t smile back, but there’s a kindness that touches his eyes and he nods his understanding. 

He accompanies her through the market street as she pays and collects the necessary provisions for the coming week, for the coming week of awkward dinners between herself and her husband. Truthfully, she’s done nothing to ease the tension – and she feels there’s no sense in trying. She can’t repair what’s been undone, nor can she make her heart forget who it is she truly wants.

She looks up at Athos, and offers another shaky smile. “I fear to ask what brings you hear.” 

He lifts an eyebrow. “Can I not visit a friend?”

Of the musketeers, he’s the one she knew even before d’Artagnan whisked his way into their lives, and she knows he means it when he says it, tentative as he does. She smiles, warmly.

“No, I know. Just, with Aramis and Porthos both visiting separately…”

“Did they?” Athos asks, vaguely, but doesn’t seem surprised, either. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you three were trying to influence me,” she says with a playful sniff. 

“I assure you that we are doing nothing of the sort,” he says.

“I should hope not,” she says. She looks down, under the guise of organizing her basket of ingredients. “I… know what it is that I should do, and I also know what it is what I want. But I should do the right thing. Right?”

She glances up at him to see him looking off into the distance, thoughtful. She’s almost afraid he didn’t hear her when he doesn’t answer her right away, and the two of them travel in silence towards the end of the market, and then turn around and head back towards her home. She realizes that he’s accompanying her. 

“… You have to decide what’s best for you,” Athos says at last. “That’s all I can say.”

“Yes,” she breathes out, sighing. “I know.” 

They walk on in silence. 

At the entrance of her home, Athos pauses, removing his hat and turning to look at her as she blinks back at him, familiar enough with his mannerisms to know that he squaring of his shoulders means he’s about to admit to something, something he feels that perhaps he shouldn’t say, for want of fairness. Still, he says it, after a moment’s pause. 

“I believe you know the right thing. … But I will admit that when it comes to d’Artagnan, I’m relatively biased. We all are.”

“… Yes,” she admits. “As am I.” 

This time, Athos does smile. “I know.” 

 

**V.**  
She’s still uncertain as she steps into the courtyard of musketeers the next day, carrying her basket again, this time stacked with loaves of bread. Her hands are shaking and she’s still unsure what she should say, whether it was a good idea at all, whether she looks okay, whether he’ll lay eyes on her and decide that it wasn’t worth it, after all, and forget about her like it was easy—

And then she turns the corner and d’Artagnan is there, and when he meets her eyes, she watches as his face lights up, first in disbelief, and then in happiness. 

And she knows she’s made the right decision.


End file.
